The Day We Met

by Roxie Cooper

  Everyone looks animated in conversation, wildly gesticulating, nodding their heads in agreement but I can’t tell whether that means they love it or hate it.

  ‘Relax. You can’t spend all night worrying about it,’ a voice says from behind me. ‘Have a drink.’

  I turn around to see Helen pushing a glass of champagne into my face.

  ‘No, thanks. I’d rather stay sober. It’s an important night and I’m so nervous I think even one drink will go straight to my head,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, well,’ she says and shrugs, ‘more for me.’ She drains her glass and starts the other one. Her black, long-sleeved dress is embellished with silver sequins which sparkle under the bright lights.

  ‘They’re all a bit nerdy, aren’t they?’ she says a bit louder than I’d like, scanning her eyes around the room.

  ‘They’re artists. Well, more like academics, really,’ I reply. ‘I know it’s not your thing.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m stupid?’ she says sulkily, pulling a face.

  I sigh. Christ, not now. Not tonight, please.

  ‘No. I didn’t mean that and you know I didn’t. I just mean—’

  ‘I’ll be outside, I need to call Imogen anyway,’ she says, glancing at the portrait which looms over us as she heads out of the room.

  ‘Absolutely exquisite, mate. Well done!’ Cal says, patting me on the back and grinning like a proud dad.

  ‘Thanks, pal,’ I reply, as we stand, studying the portrait. He’s been an absolute rock tonight, taking up a permanent position in front of my piece, charming everyone (the women love him, as always) and talking in depth about the ‘refined and majestic techniques and presentation’ of the portrait.

  ‘So,’ he says, confidently, nodding towards the picture we’re both staring at. ‘Who is she? And don’t say “nobody”. You don’t put that much passion into a made-up girl. I’ve read the statement that goes with it, mate.’

  I stare down at the floor for a few moments, thinking about what I can say.

  He knows.

  ‘Later,’ I say, finally turning to look at him. He nods his head, accompanied by a subtle smile. I should have told him before now.

  As the evening wears on, I’m introduced to each of the judges and chat to them individually, and collectively, about my work. To speak so creatively and freely about something you feel so passionately about is so liberating. And, yes, I’m aware how twatty that makes me sound. But it’s true. I love teaching my kids at the school, but this is what I ultimately want to be doing. I’ve had a taste of it now and I don’t want to give it up, especially when it feels like I’m so close.

  Everyone wants to speak to the artist. What did you want to convey with the piece? What was the inspiration? Do you have a muse? Who is your favourite artist? What motivates you? Where do you see yourself in five years?

  I’ve seen the other candidates’ work and they’re very good but I’m trying to remain confident. We all have different styles, which is a good thing – their portraits are more polished than mine, more controlled. Mine has an unfinished feel about it – an energy, a rawness.

  ‘It really is a stunning piece,’ says one short, middle-aged, jolly-looking woman who has been deep in conversation with some of the art critics for a few minutes.

  I glance up at the portrait before answering and those emerald-green eyes lock right back on mine for a moment.

  ‘Thank you, I’m really pleased with it,’ I say and smile.

  ‘You should be. It’s captivating,’ says her male companion. ‘You’ve really captured the mystery and intensity in her eyes. She looks striking.’

  They don’t know the half of it. It’s an abstract style with smooth, beautiful brushstrokes that fit within the lines.

  A bit like her, I guess.

  ‘Mr Dobson, marvellous to meet you! I’ve been admiring your work!’ a voice pipes up behind me. I swing around to see Dominic Jervis, arts editor of The Cambridge Arts Review holding his hand out for me to shake. Need to keep it cool for this one.

  ‘Yes, hello! Great to meet you!’ I say, a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘This is a terrific exhibition, Jamie. Very impressive. And I love your portrait piece.’ He nods towards it. There are a bunch of people standing in front of it, admiring it at the moment, so only the blonde hair is visible.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘I was particularly impressed at how you interpreted the theme,’ he says. ‘I can see a real emotion and connection to this portrait. The intensity in the face is really quite outstanding.’

  ‘That really is the biggest compliment to receive. You’ve no idea how appreciated it is, Mr Jervis.’

  ‘Good luck, Jamie. I’m sure, regardless of the result of this competition, we will see great things from you.’ He nods again before walking off and getting accosted by a group of people.

  God, I might need that drink after all.

  ‘Jamie!’

  Never has the sound of my own name caused me so much anxiety.

  She’s gliding through the crowd towards me with a huge smile on her face. She looks really happy in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before, in all the years we’ve known each other.

  And even though she’s the only person I want to see right now, she’s also the only person in the world I don’t want to see right now.

  ‘Erm, Stephanie! Hi!’ I whisper as she hugs me, burying her head into my neck. I quickly, but subtly, move her round so that she’s facing away from the wall.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, my heart racing.

  ‘Jamie, I really need to talk to you. I know this is your big event and you didn’t want me here, but I couldn’t wait. This couldn’t wait,’ she says breathlessly, looking around.

  ‘I’d love to talk, Steph,’ I say in hushed tones. ‘It’s not a great time, though, can we please do it tomorrow?’

  But it’s too late. By the time I’ve finished asking the question, she’s already staring at it.

  CHAPTER 31

  Stephanie

  It’s me.

  I’m looking at a painting of a woman’s face on the wall. She looks confident, determined, gazing right at me with shining green eyes. Her blonde hair is messy, haphazard around her face. I love the colours; it has a real vibrancy and warmth to it and I love how chaotic the style is. There are very few definite lines and they’re made up with shadows and light, just like he showed me all those years ago. It’s all a bit dishevelled, like me, I suppose. I can’t drag my eyes away from the face; the textures and strokes he’s used are beautiful. It’s like he’s actually captured the composition of every inch of my skin.

  The cherry-red plump mouth, slightly parted, looks sumptuous, even though I’ve never, ever considered it to be, and yet, they’re very clearly my lips. The eyes are stunning and cat-like, consumed with tenacity. The nose is neat and cute. Do I have a cute nose? It’s like looking in a mirror … a magical mirror which makes you more beautiful than you’ve ever felt and everything you wish you were. But, somehow, it’s still undeniably me.

  I walk closer to the portrait to see the information next to it.

  Title of piece: More Than Words

  Oil on canvas

  900 mm × 600 mm

  Theme of Portrait: The Perfection of Beauty in a Broken World

  Statement of Intent: How do you paint perfection? How do you fix the unfixable? Capturing the essence of the unbroken, which is no longer broken. Eyes like lightning, we are seized by their uncontrollability. The mouth, tainted with a blush of red lipstick, concealing a sensual tactility from within. A goddess draped in armour, vulnerability radiates from her ethereal skin, allowing only those she wishes to see it. How do you truly express perfection of beauty? They say a picture speaks a thousand words. Some things are more than that … they’re more than words.

  I am stunned, in the truest sense of the word.

  Firstly, because of the portrait. He chose to paint me. Secondly, by the stateme
nt which accompanies it. Is this really what Jamie thinks of me? All those times I wanted him to open up and tell me how he felt. All those years he remained closed off, unwilling to let me in, or explain what I meant to him. And now he’s told the whole world before he’s told me.

  After a few moments of staring at it on the wall, I turn to look at him. He looks vulnerable, as if he’s just exposed his soul. He looks down at the floor with his hands in his pockets, then straight at me, but can’t hold my gaze. It’s adorable in a way which reminds me of a child. His face flushes slightly red. My God, I want to hold him.

  ‘I needed to …’ he mumbles, looking straight at me. His smile is cautious, not knowing how I’m going to react to the gesture. All I want to do is kiss him – and, right now, I don’t actually care who sees it. We are in the midst of people who have no idea what has just happened, the enormity of it. It doesn’t look like anyone has clicked that I am her. They’re transfixed by Jamie’s artwork – I’m just captivated by him and never want to leave his side. I have to tell him how I feel.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Jamie. Now. Please …’ I whisper, gently touching his hand. He quickly glances down at it, before smiling at me.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he replies.

  But we’re interrupted by someone just as we’re about to walk off. A woman with long dark hair, wearing a black dress with silver sequins on. She looks a bit pissed off, not to mention drunk.

  Jamie’s wife.

  So many times over the years I imagined meeting her. All those times I stared at her photo on Facebook. What would I say? What would she be like? Would I remain cool under the pressure of it? Never in a million years did I ever imagine it would be in circumstances such as these.

  ‘Are you going to introduce me?’ Helen says in a way which suggests that Jamie has absolutely no choice in the matter whatsoever.

  Oh. My. Fucking. Good. God.

  After ten years, wife and mistress meet … and it’s every single bit as awful as you’d expect. And nothing less than I deserve.

  He glances at me, obviously thinking the same thing I am: she’s going to recognise me.

  ‘Erm,’ Jamie says, awkwardly. ‘Helen, this is Stephanie Bywater …’

  Helen extends her hand to shake mine and I return the gesture, albeit reluctantly. The entire time, I’m holding my breath, consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread. I try and think of ways to explain it. Why me? Nope, I’m stuck. There is, quite literally, no explanation for it.

  As we conduct the briefest shaking of hands, I’m so very reluctant to meet her eye. I allow my hair to fall in front of my face, desperately hoping that will conceal my features, somehow. I’ll say, politely, it was lovely to meet her and get out as quickly as possible.

  As our hands part, Helen’s eyes narrow and she looks momentarily puzzled.

  ‘You look familiar to me, Stephanie. Have we met before?’

  I glance nervously at Jamie as I casually touch my face, trying to obscure my mouth, nose … anything which will make it less obvious.

  ‘Oh, err, no. I don’t think so,’ I say, in the most casual tone I can muster. The blood rushes around my body faster than I can cope with, making me feel lightheaded. ‘I do live locally – perhaps you’ve seen me in Waitrose?’

  My eyes dart around the room, frantically searching for the nearest exit. I need to leave … now. However, at this very moment, the slight gathering of people in front of the portrait disperses and moves on to the next piece, leaving the area exposed.

  ‘So,’ Helen says, ‘how do you know my husband then?’

  I try to remain cool, mumbling about how my father is Michael Carpenter and I work for the company but, predictably, she stops listening after about five seconds. That’s when I see her eyes flicker over my shoulder. The first glance is very brief, a second, if that. Then she does a double take. And stops listening to what I’m saying to stare at the portrait on the wall.

  I say nothing. What the hell can I say or do at this point? It’s far too late. I just have to watch the scene unfold. The most excruciating part about it is that I’m forced to watch the realisation spread across her face. This woman, who I’ve helped betray over the past ten years. Never did I ever imagine she’d find out; call it naivety or plain stupidity, but I genuinely thought we could get away with it. And we almost did. Are we really going to be caught out now? Like this? Here?

  We don’t say anything to her. No point.

  ‘Ah, so that’s how you know him?’ Helen says to me, with a very deliberate sting in her voice.

  This is fucking horrific.

  She is very clearly not stupid. She knows.

  Her eyes jump between the portrait, Jamie and I. Our facial expressions of guilt, shame and regret at this awful scene being played out give it all away. Jamie doesn’t say anything – he knows this game is up.

  ‘Which one of you is going to tell me “It’s not what it looks like”?’ she says, very calmly.

  Jamie walks towards her in an attempt to calm things down.

  ‘Helen, not here, please …’ He looks like he might faint. The colour has drained from his face and he has actually turned white. My heart beats so fast it hurts my chest. The chattering throng have absolutely no idea of the emotional turmoil going on between the three of us, none of us knowing what to say.

  I look at Jamie. He’s looking at Helen. She switches her gaze between the two of us as people gently push past us to examine the next art piece.

  ‘I fucking knew it!’ she spits at him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Monday 23 January 2017

  Jamie

  The house is deadly quiet. The only sound comes from the kitchen – the gentle buzz of the fridge and the leaky tap I never got fixed. It drips, slowly, into the ceramic sink. Everything is the same, but different.

  Standing in the hallway, I note the differences that would be subtle to a regular visitor of this house. They might not even notice at all. But they leap out at me the second I come in. The photos on the sideboard which used to be of the three of us have been replaced with photos of just Helen and Seb. The artwork which used to hang in the hall has been taken down. The wall where it was is now a slightly darker colour than that which surrounds it.

  The living room door is ajar, so I gently push it open. Poking my head around, I see that a few bits of furniture have been removed, other bits changed around. There’s no redecoration, no grand purchases. But make no mistake about it: this is not my house any more. I do not belong here.

  I can’t bring myself to say it’s been the worst few months of my life because I don’t deserve to. Not after what Helen has been going through. But I never, ever wanted to hurt her …

  The night of the exhibition was beyond words horrific. Watching Helen find out that way, watching her connect Stephanie to the portrait – everything. Usually I can’t even bear to think about it. Other times, when I’m lying in bed on my own, in the dark, I go through it over and over again. And again. After working out what was going on, she’d screamed, calling me a cheating bastard and Stephanie a fucking slut, then punched me in the face.

  I momentarily shudder seeing the big armchair in the bay window. I remember how Helen curled up in it, listening to me telling her about Stephanie. She sat in her pyjamas, red-faced and puffy-eyed. In all my life, I’d never felt so full of self-loathing. There was nothing but me, her and the truth.

  ‘Just tell me everything,’ she said. ‘Even if it hurts. You owe me the truth.’

  I’ve never felt so awful, telling her how I fell in love with another woman more than ten years ago and tried not to, but couldn’t help it. That I’d slept with her, once, at which she snorted in disbelief. That, even though I’d tried to ignore it, I thought of her a lot and had feelings that just wouldn’t go away. That even though I barely saw her, I felt so connected to her. That she was the person who truly got me. That I loved her, Helen. That I loved Stephanie …

  ‘You can’t love two people at
the same time, Jamie!’ she mocked, running her hands though her hair in desperation. ‘It’s just something men like you say to get out of shit like this.’

  I understand why she thinks that. I wouldn’t have believed it either unless it had happened to me.

  Now, feeling like I’m invading someone else’s space, I leave the living room and close the door. Creeping up the stairs, I’m scared to make a sound and let the house notice that I’m here, an unwelcome intruder. All of the doors leading off the upstairs landing, bar the spare room, are shut. Not ajar, shut. No entry. Keep out. A twinge of sadness leaves my heart aching.

  The mural I painted on Sebby’s door catches my eye as I walk past. He loves animals so I created a jungle scene with his name spelled out in bright red letters. Running my fingers over the ‘S’, I can’t resist going in, just for a second, even though I have absolutely no right to do it.

  It’s been two months since I’ve been in here but it feels like years. The entire room is a place of nostalgia and love I will no longer access after today, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow. I peer up at the glowing planets hanging above his bed that we put up together and used to gaze at as he fell asleep, the bookshelf we’d sit next to and read together, the desk with colouring pencils scattered about, half-finished pictures and doodlings.

  Cal and Vicky offered me a room at theirs immediately after the blowout, which was enormously kind of them given the politics involved. They sent Helen some flowers and Vicky called her saying they were so very sorry and weren’t taking sides, but they loved us both and wanted to help. Helen was pissed off they were housing me, but they’re hoping she will come round eventually. I told Cal everything and he said he wished I told him years ago.

  Telling Mum was the worst. It reopened all the old wounds from Dad leaving. She’d wanted better for me and this was just like history repeating itself. I called her a few nights after it happened from Cal’s garden, feeling sick as the phone rang.

  ‘Me and Helen have split up, Mum,’ I said.